


Death by Murder, My Dear Watson

by singthestars



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Dark Imagery, Dark John, Dark Sherlock, HEED THE TAGS YALL, Horror, John and Sherlock are seriously not good people, M/M, Mind the Tags, Serial Killers, Torture, baby did a bad bad thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singthestars/pseuds/singthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, on the other hand, still tastes metal. When he sleeps, it is no longer the harsh grit of sand and rock that fills his mouth, no longer gunpowder and sun-cracked lips. Instead, he tastes blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sherlock Mini Bang on tumblr by the AMAZING discursivetacenda and only barely co-authored by me. 
> 
> Special thanks to johnwatsonsass and the-sass-of-the-ass for getting excited about this story and for the 2 cow.

**The Armenian**

"This is my note.... Goodbye John."

He pulls the phone away from his ear and screams as he sees Sherlock step off the edge of the building. He’s sure he’s close enough to have heard the sickening thud of flesh meeting the ground, the crunch of bone and agonized last breath, but he’s unaware of anything. Not the bodies he brushes by, not the people who pull him away from testing the pulse at Sherlock’s limp wrist.

All he sees is red, pooling under the body’s head and the way it hurts to breathe.

He blinks once, twice, turns away and stands slowly. He’s aware of a lot, distantly. The feel of something warm and wet on his hand, the sirens and people speaking to him… it all registers in the back of his mind. He walks away, measured steps pacing towards the interior of the building, trying to gather the last of Sherlock's effects. He must soldier on.

 

  
Lestrade and his team find the first body 2 weeks later. Anderson can give no explanation for how the corpse can be completely exsaguinated, grey and limp as it hangs from the rafters in an abandoned rundown flat in Wood Green. The right hand is nonexistent, only the wristbones remained, stripped bare and gleaming white. They can hardly pull together an identification with how sliced open the body is, skin flayed from its face and chest.

"Lucky thing the left hand is in tact, sir. Rather fortunate we can pull fingerprints."

Lestrade breathes out hard and drops his head, one hand rubbing at his forehead. It's times like these where he feels the loss of Sherlock the most. Holmes may have been a pain in the ass, but he was brilliant. He would see something in the way the laces were tied on the body's shoes, or some speck of dust on its shoulders, and would be able to find the killer immediately. As it stands, Anderson is talking his way through the crime scene, trying to make up for the lack of Sherlock's intensity.

The matter is even more convoluted when Interpol comes to shut down the investigation and removes the body from the morgue upon receipt of the fingerprint analysis. Lestrade stares at his emptied desk except for a memo about the body. Armenian, hitman... Last address had been a flat along Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson had been forthcoming upon first seeing the picture of the victim.

"Oh that lovely man! He came to fix my lights the day that Sherlock..." she drifted off, face hardening. "I haven't seen him since, Inspector."

Any further inquiries had been met with polite distance and cool eyes, devoid of any information. Lestrade couldn't even begin to investigate further, with no body and no trail. Any further questions to Mrs. Hudson had been lost in proffered cuppas and another dewy eyed reminiscence of Sherlock. He cast his eyes heavenward, trying to resign himself to knowing that it was no longer part of his division.

 

  
John, on the other hand, still tastes metal. When he sleeps, it is no longer the harsh grit of sand and rock that fills his mouth, no longer gunpowder and sun-cracked lips. Instead, he tastes blood. Feels it boiling hot as he stabs and slices into the Armenian again and again. He'd made it back from St. Bart's Hospital just in time to see the gun in the toolkit of the man working on Mrs. Hudson's foyer lights.

He'd been able to surprise him, only able to take him down from shock and a nearby vase.

John has no idea what Mrs. Hudson had seen in his face when he asked her to open the basement flat for him, and to give him the key. She hadn't argued, hadn't said a word.

It was amazing, really, what can be brought forth with just an ice pick and a scalpel held in the proper hands. In a strange way, John thought that Sherlock would have been proud. The man had so much to tell about Moriarty, about the long game that had been played. Moriarty had been more than a little insane, glibly telling his plan to the gathering of assassins he'd found to hunt Sherlock and his friends.

Three assassins, specially tasked. A sniper for John. A mole for Lestrade. The Armenian for Mrs. Hudson. If Sherlock didn't jump, if he'd tried to renege on his deal....

John had slowly sliced through Armenian's right hand with surgical precision. The gargle of blood and screams had made for a satisfying counterpoint while he meticulously separated tendons and ligaments, scalpel cleaning the edge of wrist bones until they gleamed and the Armenian had passed out. A trophy for later.

John closes his eyes, breathing deeply, as he goes through his workout routine, clearing his mind as he sinks into his body. Running, stretching muscles he forgets about and trying to wipe the sense-memory of blood soaking into his palms as he bled the Armenian dry. The basement has been bleached clean, no traces of the victim ever having been there. There's no evidence of him to be found at all, save a case board and portfolio. He thinks that is something he gained from Sherlock.

The Armenian had given up so much information, but John was only getting started. A few names, the ideal plan that had involved all of their deaths anyway. He has a general idea of what he needs to do; dossiers and pictures, as much information as he could gather without being obvious about his searching... John had learned stealth, after all. He'll start with the mole first, since he still had access to Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson stops him on the stairs up to his room, some flowers in her hand. "I thought we could..." she trails off. John nods, following her with only a slight tremor to his hand as he holds her elbow to steady her.

At the cemetary, Mrs. Hudson's voice breaks as she steps away, promising to leave them alone for a moment so he can have a private moment. He doesn't bother trying to correct her anymore, allows her to believe as she will about what was between them. John waits, staring at the carved letters of the marker. He turns after a moment to make sure she's gone before he starts talking, as though He can hear.

"Um... you... you told me once that you weren't a hero," he begins, lingering over the words. "There were times where I didn't think you were human. But I'll tell you this: you were the best man and the most human..." he looks down at his hand, shaking, "human being that I've known and no one will convince me that you ever told me a lie. So.... there."

He stares off into the graveyard, unseeing, caressing the edge of the grave marker. "I was so alone and I owe you so much. Now please, there's just one more thing mate. One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't. Be. Dead." His voice breaks and he struggles not to weep. Even without Sherlock here, he can't break down in front of him. "Would you do that? Just for me. Will you just... stop it. Stop this."

He breathes deeply, trying to regain the composure he's long since lost, wiping his eyes with one hand as the other flexes at his side. He can feel himself reaching for a sidearm he no longer carries, for a cane he hasn't needed in 18 months. A moment passes and he sighs shakily, straightens to attention, nods his head and makes an abortive salute before turning sharply away.

Sherlock watches on the fringes of the graveyard and says nothing, all too aware of what John's thinking.

 

 

  
"He's going to get messy. You need to stop him before it happens again."

Sherlock doesn't look up from his newspaper, seated by the fireplace in the old family estate, reading about the unsolved murder. Mycroft isn't overexaggerating, he knows, but he's also not making an effort to stop John himself.

"The crown's interested in the deaths of wanted international criminals now?" he asks idly, flipping the page loudly to irk his brother.

"He will be caught, Sherlock. Either you stop him or..." Mycroft trails off, pursing his lips sourly and looking down his nose at his brother before striding off to pour himself a whiskey.

"Rather childish threat to make, Mycroft." A smile quirks one side of Sherlock's lips, although he only sees his brother on the periphery. It's probably a lot more serious than his brother is letting on, and he turns to actually look at his brother, making mental notes.

Corgi hairs, but fewer than usual.  
The smell of gunpowder and ink, though more paper than Lestrade's office.  
The slight tic of his brother's eye, a tell even stronger than the affectation he usually put on.

Sherlock sat slowly upright, folding his paper. Nothing needs to be said, really, but he needs to stall for time. "How close are they?"

"He can't do it again, Sherlock. He shouldn't have at all." Mycroft sits across from his brother, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his lips. "Did you know?"

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, standing to leave. "Better back off on the cakes, Mycroft. You've put on a stone." The lack of retort as the door closes behind him says more about their current predicament than either Holmes would care to admit.

**The Mole**

 

 

"Doctor Watson?" A thin voice catches John's attention and he turns to find the underweight teenager, shabbily dressed in too big, dirty clothes, sitting against the side of a building. A yellow arm band tied around her left arm marks her as one of Sherlock's homeless network. The lot of them had taken to the decoration after the detective's death, as did a large portion of the general public. Several members of the network came to the clinic after hours where John would patch them up, no questions asked, and often send them off with a few extra quid.

The young woman is not one he has ever seen before, and he rises, quickly cataloging any wounds she may have. He can’t think of any save needing a bath and a good meal.

"I'm supposed to give you this." The girl rises to her feet and hands John a piece of torn, folded up scrap of paper.

John blinks and accepts the note as he pulls out his wallet; he knew how these transactions worked.

"Ta mate, but I've been paid," she smiles, revealing a missing front tooth, before walking away, quickly getting lost in the crowd.

John stands there, confusion filling his mind, before unfolding the paper.

_Number 2 of 3_  
 _Todd Newton. Age 37. New Scotland Yard._

John stares at the name as well as what appeared to be a home address scrawled underneath in messy handwriting as the world suddenly narrows, a grip of panic filling his chest and clawing at his throat. Someone knew.

It was only after he makes it back to Baker Street and had poured a large tumbler of whiskey that John allows himself to take a deep breath and look at the paper once more. Todd Newton. The name rings a bell and it only takes a moment to remember the new constable that had started working at the Yard only shortly before That Day, assistant to Lestrade himself.

 

John begins collecting what he will need and every time he slips an unopened scalpel into his pocket or a line of tubing into his pack, he feels the crinkled edges of the note in his palm. His plans move along quickly after he begins working part time at St. George’s. The difficult part is finding the appropriate space. Sure, there are plenty of empty warehouse around town but to find one that is actually unoccupied? It's harder than it looks. Most places show signs of the homeless and it is the homeless that finally lead him to secluded boat house on the edge of the Thames, half shrouded in overgrowth.

The Network asks no questions, especially not from Sherlock Holmes' doctor.

A rented car, a week of surveillance, and a bottle of chloroform later, John has Todd Newton bound in the trunk of a car and absolute privacy.

 

  
"You know, during the Victorian era, surgeries were performed without anesthetics of any kind. Well, you might be able to get drunk first... if you were lucky." The laugh that escapes him is dripping with malice, reminding Newton how unlucky he can be. John circles the shining table as he watches the man, bound to its top, struggle against the straps. A slight chill permeates the air and John suppresses a shiver, his thin scrubs not offering warmth. Not that he wouldn’t be warm soon enough under the hot lights overhead.

With a felt-tip marker, John numbers off each of his limbs and now he steps up to the Newton's left leg which bore a large, thick number one. "So the surgeons were fantastically quick about their work. I read that there were surgeons who could remove a leg in thirty seconds. How long do you think it will take me?"

The man begins to scream through his gag, panicked gaze watching as John holds his leg down and carefully draws a dotted line above his knee. "That should do it," he smiles warmly, patting the leg, before turning and walking over to the table he had set up the day before. John grabs the white coat and slips on his face shield, apron and gloves.

He selects the utensils he will need and carefully lines them up on a tray, wheeling it over to his patient. He caresses them lightly, a workman proud of his tools, and holds aloft the shiny bone saw. Newton's screams increase in volume and pitch as he begins to struggle anew, sweat gleaming on his skin. Calmly, humming under his breath, John grabs a piece of rubber and quickly ties a tourniquet above the line on the man's leg, pulling it tight. It snaps satisfyingly loud against the pale skin and John grins.

John clamps his hand across the patient's thigh, placing the stopwatch next to the man's head. “Do keep an eye on this for us.” His eyes flash hot as he picks up his favorite knife and in one rapid movement makes his incision, cutting under the skin below the mole's knee and fileting upwards. The patient's screams no long sound human as John puts the knife away and grabs the saw and begins to cut.

The bone is dense and it isn’t long before John is covered in warm blood. He loses himself in the repetitive motion, all fading to white noise as he focuses single-mindedly on his task. It's soothing almost, the steady back and forth, and the _thunk_ of the saw against the metal table almost takes him by surprise. John grabs the limb and tosses it on the floor before quickly starting to tie off the main artery of the thigh with a knot and cauterizing other smaller blood vessels. As the tourniquet is loosened, the flesh is stitched back over the stump with thick, black thread.

John reaches over to hit the stop watch, "Four minutes and fifteen seconds. Well, I am out of practice." He undoes the man's gag and begins his interrogation, noting with some glee the pallor of his prey.

By the time he makes it through the arms and around to the right leg, John's time is down to two minutes and forty two seconds and he has a name. The sniper: Sebastian Moran, former military, fathered an illegitimate child somewhere in the Middle East, current residence: Unknown.

  
John stops to change out the saline drip and check his patient's pulse. Light and thready, the early stages of shock are beginning to set in, but John still has plenty of time and blood for transfusions. He finds out exactly how many organs the body can carry on without, how much screaming a man can do with only one lung, the disbelief when someone is faced with their outer extremities no longer attached to their body. By the time he's done, it's as if he has bathed in blood, the smell of it filling his nostrils, and running down his arms in streams. He finally cuts out the man's eyes and quickly transfers them into a jar of preservative, snapping a pair of his gloves off thereafter with finality.

Newton is a quivering mess on the table, chest and abdomen open with most of his insides sitting in various pans and dishes. He is, however, alive for the moment. John wonders idly how he’ll react to the current drip drying up and shock setting in, now that he can no longer see his death coming. John removes his gear, picking up a wet rag and wiping the spurious blood and sweat from his face. The rest would be hidden under his coat.

John straightens his spine and his fist clenches involuntarily as he surveys the rest of the room laid out before him. He would come back tomorrow to dispose of the body and collect his trophies. The foresight of gloves made sure that he would leave no prints and the constant breaks to wipe his brow ensured no DNA would be found, once he's tossed everything into the hospital's incenerator. He quickly throws everything he had worn into his duffle and dons his coat, zipping it up to the neck. There is a stop he has to make before he goes home.

There's still blood dripping from under his sleeves when he arrives at Sherlock's gravestone, lightning making the world stand out in stark relief. A night like tonight, where the world rumbles as if it’s ending, ensures that he’s left in peace to whisper what he needs to tell Sherlock. He smiles, thinking how easily he could have taken his own life instead of the two he’s managed already.

It wouldn’t have been enough… not nearly enough. The only thing he can think that will be enough of a siren’s song is a pile of bodies, bloody and destroyed at his feet. He rubs his hand idly against the stone when he hears the footsteps.

 

"How long have you been following me?"

 


	2. Howlin' For You

"How long have you been following me?"

 

John is impatient, and turns toward Sherlock as the sky breaks overhead. Rain begins to pour and the already silent graveyard seems to empty further, leaving the two of them beside a false gravestone and an overhanging tree. He wonders how many more bodies he would have been rid of before Sherlock had caught a clue. "How long, Sherlock?!"

"Since the beginning." Sherlock's voice is almost lost in the rumble of thunder, but neither are prepared for John's fist connecting with Sherlock's jaw as the rain begins to fall. They grapple and fall hard against the grave marker, knocking the wind from their lungs as they clip it and their feet slide in the grass. John gets a few more punches in and is sure the only reason he was able to land them was the fact that Sherlock is allowing it.

John keeps struggling with Sherlock as they hit the ground, breath coming hard. He can taste blood when he's thrown on to his back and his head cracks against a marker half hidden in the grass. He can't stop, even with the thunder that rumbles through his bones and the blood that streams from his skin like paints. He has his hands around Sherlock's throat and rain is half blinding him. There's so much rage in him that he can barely think, and his knee slams up into Sherlock's midsection, eliciting a satisfying groan.

He flips Sherlock over onto his back, into the mud beneath him, fingers tightening around the detective's neck. Sherlock scrambles for a moment, fingernails digging into the skin of John's face, until John lets go and punches wildly, landing hard on ribs and kidneys and grinning when he hears the crack of bone. He's ill-prepared for Sherlock to headbutt him though, nose suddenly spouting bloody and gashed where it cracks.

He ignores it, spitting away from the two of them as he straddles Sherlock and pins him as best he can. He laughs as Sherlock growls and flails beneath him, bucking hard to try to launch him off. Lightning slashes across the sky as the shock of their erections rubbing catches both of their attentions.

John can't stop himself, snarling as he pushes Sherlock back. Their eyes are wild as they slam against each other again, too much pressure and sharp biting to be called a kiss. They don't stop struggling even as they rub against each other. John feels it in the pit of his stomach, the warm ache of arousal building as his bleeding face turns their kiss macabre. And he knows, more than anything, that Sherlock is the same.

Sherlock pulls away, quicking undoing his fly and John pushes his scrubs down over his hips, not stopping until Sherlock's long pale fingers are wrapped around the both of their cocks, stroking them. He digs his hands into the sod on either side of Sherlock's head, breathing harshly as he's squeezed just at the edge of too tight.

"John." One word, torn from a half strangled throat, and they both stripe Sherlock's torso with cum, shuddering. It's not enough, not nearly, and John finds himself shoving away and pulling his clothes up angrily. He can't bear to be there one more moment, and strides off for home.

 

  
It's only when they've made it up the stairs past Mrs. Hudson's rooms when they begin again, Sherlock shoving John bodily against the arch leading to the kitchen. He feels the molding press bruises deeper even than he remembers, and cries out, rage rising to fever pitch again. He manages one solid punch again, blacking Sherlock's eye. John bares his teeth, cock hardening and loving it when Sherlock manages to throw him hard against the refrigerator instead before heading out of the room.

With each room, again they tussle, trading blow for blow. By turns, John has Sherlock winded and on his back in the living room, then finds himself on his knees on his bathroom floor. Over and over until again, John's pinned face first against a wall in Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock's cock riding the cleft of his ass. He pushes back, tossing his head roughly where his erstwhile flatmate's head should be and missing entirely. Sherlock's hand grabs the back of his head and slams him back against the wall, just narrowly missing his broken nose, holding him there.

John feels like he's on a hair trigger, and only stops fighting when he feels Sherlock's breath against his ear, the low rumble of his voice. "Unless you want this to be over before I've been inside you, I suggest you stop fighting me." And for that, he's never needed any more encouragement.

He allows Sherlock to slip the scrubs down to the floor, although the palm holding his head to the wall never moves. He's hard enough for it to be painful but he relishes it, craves how electric and alive he feels now.

He moans when Sherlock bites down on his back, teeth only just breaking the skin while the barest slick of lube is given him. There's no room even for thought anymore as it all turns to static as Sherlock lines himself up and roughly pushes in. John's gasps are desperate, and he jerks himself as Sherlock slams into him over and over. Sherlock's hand moves to grip the back of his neck and his other digs into his hips so hard that John knows that there will be bruises.

The blood soaked scrubs are pooled at his ankles, and everything is aching, but everything can be forgotten with the sound of Sherlock hissing in pleasure, in the last stutter thrusts of his cock.

 

  
It's not until they're both in the shower, watching the blood pour off them and down the drain, that Sherlock speaks, "You're sloppy, John."

John's eyes flash, and he grits his teeth, "Brilliant, Sherlock. Just brilliant."

Sherlock scoffs, turning John and pressing him bodily against the tile, drawing his attention through reawakened wounds. "If I hadn't stepped in, you would be caught. How long do you think it would take before someone saw what I see?"

"What do you see?"

Sherlock turns the water off and steps out of the bath, grabbing a towl to wrap around his waist. John follows him into the bedroom watching as he towels off his hair and slips into a pair of pants, "You keep trophies. The right hand. The eyes. Every serial killer keeps a trophy." Sherlock seems to only halfheartedly dry, whirling his robe around his arms and turning back to face John. "But it's so obvious, John. A soldier in Afghanistan for 10 years, you would assimilate some of their punishments. Cutting off the right hand of a thief who'd come to steal away Mrs. Hudson's life, leaving him only the ability to be unclean. Hanging him as a murderer, as I have no doubts that Moriarty had requested they continue their mission to kill you all."

John nods, dropping his own towel in the hamper before leaning against the post at the end of the bed, giving his assent although it isn't needed. "He was a madman, Sherlock."

He carries on without giving any indication he'd heard him. "I tried to warn you about the one following Lestrade. No one can explain away a constable's murder. I'm sure the Detective Inspector will no doubt be thrilled you removed the spy within his midst, but really John. The eyes?" He twists his mouth in a moue of disappointment as he climbs over the trunk at the end of the bed and throws himself onto the mattress.

"I thought it fitting." John is beginning to feel the aches and pains as the endorphins and shock of seeing Sherlock wear off. The conversation is done for him, really, and he slides into bed beside Sherlock, nudging one knee out of the way of a particularly aching bruise.

"Boring. Cliché. I hadn’t thought you’d be so ordinary, John. Fortunately for you, I've cleaned up this mess." Sherlock goes quiet for a moment before propping himself up on his elbow and tentatively reaches you to rest his hand over John's heart.

"You didn't have to yell so loudly, John."

John yawns, wrapping a possessive arm around Sherlock's hips and pulling him back down onto the bed. "How else would I have made you come back to me?" In the dark, as he begins to drift off, he can hear the soft, happy tone of his lover's voice.

"I have ideas for what we can do with the next one, John. Such ideas."

 

**The Sniper**

John has become the epitome of patience. Sherlock has changed, and John has changed along with him. Time no longer matters to him. There is simply The Moment.

The Moment begins when they've finally tracked down the sniper who'd had a bullet with John's name on it. He's not necessarily hard to find. He's just more aware of the retribution coming to his world. Retribution that he couldn't outrun across 2 continents and 23 countries.

John has the patience of a saint, toying with the man, coming just within range of his would-be killer so that the man would jackrabbit away again. It's a game. One with rewards... like Sherlock biting kisses on split lips, bruised ribs and scraped knees where they weren't careful about how John landed to suck Sherlock's cock. A reward system full of Sherlock's body and the copper tang of blood in his mouth.

He allows himself to reminisce about Brazil. The damp heat of the jungle warring with Sherlock's heat. Bodies pressed down in sand until it had gotten everywhere. He doesn't know how the beaches in Rio are so different to the desert of Afghanistan. The drugs and the gunpowder still linger in the air, no matter the span of the world.

But now, he is back in London. His jackrabbit must imagine he can catch John unawares, turn the hunt back on the hunter. John would laugh if The Moment wasn't ripe. He catches sight of one, then another, of Sherlock's Irregulars, subtle signals passing coded messages. John can feel the adrenaline making his blood rush, the anticipation heightening is senses.

"Are you ready to play?" Sherlock growls softly in John's ear, appearing at his side without a sound. The entirety of John's body is suddenly erect, like a dog set on a fox's trail. It's nigh on Pavlovian, but the scent of blood is in the air already.

He feels 2 syringes pressed into his palm, one colder and thicker than the other. His hand squeezes reflexively, causing them to clack together.

"Ice to paralyze. Heat to revive."

John's grin has no mirth, and chills a passing woman into a faster pace. He doesn't care. It's time. He doesn't even give a second thought, quietly & confidently into his prey's flat. He didn't think he'd walk in completely unsuspected, and he's not disappointed. They grapple a moment, and John notes the training that the man had in the way he fights. Thoroughly British, but with the flair of someone who'd dabbled, traits from Mossad and Quds forces coloring the blows.

The bite of the syringe makes Moran drop like a sack of bricks.

 

  
John is grateful for the setup of the boat house, stainless steel table perfectly holding the body with wide eyes and panicked breathing. John checks the IV drip, making sure he's got enough fluids running into the body to start. He looks over to Sherlock, hands behind his back and a slight smile on his face.

"Begin."

John takes up his scalpel and begins at his lower legs, cutting just deep enough to separate skin from muscle. He's done enough research, practiced a few times to get the feel. He can peel away the skin just like a sock, all over the body if he's very careful. He works methodically, trading for sharper blades as each scalpel dulls.

Sherlock doesn't step over until the bag of fluids begins to dry out, hanging up a new one in its place and standing just behind John's left shoulder, the heat of him fairly warming John through. He pauses, giving in to the shiver of delight that rushes through him when he feels the faintest hint of Sherlock's erection rub against him before their bodies part again. He aches, and waits.

"Show me."

He nods, shedding crimson slick gloves for another clean pair, stretching his hands in the neoprene before gently stroking across one bared tendon in the body's leg. It jerks and shudders, impulses still firing. He glances up at the face, smiling when pain clears to show horror in his eyes. They move across to the other leg, muscle carved away to show the bone and ligament underneath. Sherlock makes a thorough study of it, both analyzing the structure and John's fine handiwork.

For his efforts, he receives a quirk of a smile. "Continue."

John carries on. An hour passes, and another, with nothing but the trading out of fluids and the occasional clink of scalpel hitting tray to keep time. Each time he exposes something new, Sherlock takes a moment to press close into his personal space, to allow the rumble of his voice to pass through their chests to narrate their encounter.

"I know about your little experiment with organs, and I appreciate your efforts for science. I want to see them still in the body."

John is careful to saw through the sternum before using the rib spreader to show the heart beating in the chest all the way to the clench of intestines below. He takes a moment to reapply his gloves and to take a breath. It's been hours and they've had to revive him twice due to pain. There's very little left to explore, but the excitement in Sherlock's eyes buoys him.

 

He's aware of how desperate he is to have Sherlock's hands on him, the way his body is responding to blood and the low rumble of his voice... He's not letting it affect him, only honing his senses even further so he can give him this-- a body, spread out for his intellectual pleasure, and his own body, for his carnal pleasure later. He steps back up, picking up an extremely long needle, not too unlike knitting needles.

He quirks an eyebrow at Sherlock, and is suffused with joy when he nods. He pierces the needle through the body's upper arm, not stopping until he hits bone. Four pins, skewering through muscles until they mirror each other. John flicks the forearm, setting off a chain reaction of twitches in the upper arm. The needles clack together, over and over, like a kinetic motion machine. Sherlock's hum of pleasure spurs John on, skewering more needles into the arm until a single tap sets off waves of needles.

John watches it and marvels at the sight. Amazing, what a pair of hands and an imagination can do.

"Enough." John snaps to attention at that, hands dropping to his sides. Sherlock raises a hand and a few people appear from the shadows, people who John was unaware existed. He strips of his scrubs and gloves efficiently, paraphenalia landing in a hazardous waste bag. They're very careful to leave no traces. What's left begins to look like a black market organ farm, something that could easily be passed off as immigrants and played up to British National Party fearmongering. John has no doubt that there's not going to be anything left.

As suddenly as they arrived, Sherlock's elves leave. John and Sherlock leave via another door. John hears the crackle of a fire before he's taken 10 steps. "Sherlock?" he begins, starting to turn. Sherlock doesn't allow it, walking him steadily to a waiting black town car.

 

Mycroft drops his newspaper only after they've both climbed into the car and sat across from him. "Have we finally accomplished our goal, gentlemen?" His customarily snide tone is subdued, the question more earnest in the orange glow of the fire consuming the boathouse and their latest kill.

Sherlock tuts, reclining against the seat back. "There will always be wicked men, Mycroft. The question is not if we've accomplished our goal."

Mycroft pales considerably, and swallows, mouth pursed and sour. "What is the question, then?"

"The question is," Sherlock sits forward menacingly, his voice dropping low in the close interior of the car, "which side you're truly on."

  
**Epilogue: The Woman**

Irene idly sips at the tea her new plaything brought her. Old habits died hard, and sex was never more useful for reconnaissance. She smiled, secure in the knowledge that Moriarty's reach was hampered by the grave. She could slip back into leathers and gather all the information her black heart could desire, creating a life to which she could easily become accustomed again.

Even rumors of the pair vying to take over the vast empire did little to disturb her. A grunt and a brain, no matter who they were, were as likely as Alexander's generals to keep the power structure.

Smiling, she checks her phone as she receives a text notification.

_Not dead. Let's have dinner._   
_-SH & JW_


End file.
